


Stray From The Hallow Ground

by geckoholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Acts Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 16:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>This isn't about sex, not really. It's not about penetration, about either Sam or Cas getting off as well, it's solely and completely about Dean. His release, his ways to cope, his needs.</em> -  Pure PWP, Sam/Dean/Castiel with painplay and implied D/S.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stray From The Hallow Ground

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amorremanet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/gifts).



> Based on her 5 acts wishlist from the round before the last one, although it strayed quite a bit (see what I did there? XD). There was supposed to be threesome bondage and I kinda threw in a kinkmeme prompt or two for good measure. 
> 
> Saltandbyrne read this over. Thanks! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine.
> 
> Title is from "Devotion" by Hurts.

There's no noise in the room, except for the sound of their breathing and the occasional rustle of clothes; Cas took off his trenchcoat, dress jacket and shoes when they were setting things up, but he never fully undresses for this. Neither does Sam; he's still wearing boxers and a t-shirt, and the heat of his body bleeds through the thin cotton where their bodies touch, offering comfort and reassurance alike. Dean's leaning against him, back to chest, head pressed into his neck, eyes tightly shut. Clinging, almost; they haven't even really gotten started yet, and already Dean feels the need to disappear. 

The bed dips with Cas' weight. He grabs hold of Dean's legs, draws them out and shoves them apart. Dean lets him, even though it means he has to shift a little, give up some of the contact and protection Sam's presence offers. Instinct tells him to close his legs, put his hands over himself, _something_ , but he ignores it. Them still being dressed while Dean's the one naked and spread wide, it makes this more embarrassing and more intense at the same time. One more thing to drive home the point that this isn't about sex, not really. It's not about penetration, about either Sam or Cas getting off as well, it's solely and completely about Dean. His release, his ways to cope, his _needs_. 

“Dean.” That's Cas, voice firm but gentle. “Lift your head.” 

Reluctantly, Dean does. He knows what this is about; the blindfold. That's the last thing they do before it begins, the last preparation, the last step of a ritual that's almost always the same. The loss of his sight makes Dean want to scream, thrash, an irrational but very real fear, and the only thing that keeps him from doing so is Sam. He strokes a hand along Dean's arm, whispers soothing nonsense to his ear, and their proximity, more than anything, is what calms Dean down. Sam's got him. He's right here. Nothing bad's going to happen, it's just the three of them, just this. He's safe. They won't take anything he's not willing to give, they know him, know his limits. 

Dean breathes in and out, deep gulps of breath to center himself. 

“Okay?” Sam asks, fingertips ghosting down Dean's jaw, and Dean nods. 

He forces himself to relax. Give himself over, let them take control. It drives him insane, makes him want to sob with panic at the same time as it makes him want to writhe with pleasure, anticipation and want. He's not afraid of the pain, not that. It's the thought of being taken apart, stripped and naked far beyond physical nudity, that has his breath speed up and his cock twitch despite the conflicting emotions that steamroll through him on nights like this. 

There's more rustling, Cas rummaging around across the room, and every muscle in Dean's body goes taut. He knows what toys and items they have, picked them all out himself, they made him, but he has no idea what's it going to be tonight – how they're going to hurt him – and the wait is horrible. 

Cas knows that, and there's another long moment of absolute stillness before it starts. Although Dean can't see, he can picture Cas there, in front of the bed, looking down at Dean's nakedness with a gentle smile on his face. That's the aspect of this that still surprises Dean the most; Cas gets how much this isn't about domination and submission and making Dean hurt to get him off, possibly better than Sam does. It's a testament of how much they both care for him, love him, need him to be okay, and for once Dean's able to comprehend that; accept it and believe it. 

The first hit of the flogger on Dean's stomach comes out of nowhere, snatches him back from where he was getting lost in his own head. It's almost a relief. Pain shoots through him, spreads out from his middle all throughout his body, sets his nerve endings on fire, shocks the breath out of him. 

Dean can feel Sam suck in air as well, hands tightening where he holds Dean's arms in place to keep him from flailing out and getting in the way of the leather straps of the flogger, hurt himself in a way that he's not supposed to. Cas doesn't believe in starting out slow, and Dean knows Sam doesn't like that much. It's different when Sam's the one in charge, a slow process that lights Dean up from within, but Cas jumps right into the deep end. Dean can take it, he says. He'll take whatever they give him, he'll be good, and on nights like this, Dean wants nothing more than prove him right. Make him proud, make them both proud, be worthy of their unwavering belief in him that Dean's never sure he deserves. 

The second and the third hit are worse than the first, but somewhere between number four and number seven they start to blend together, and shortly after that Dean loses count. He pushes back, deeper into Sam's embrace, closes his eyes tightly again despite the blindfold, concentrates on his breathing and on keeping quiet. That's another one of the rules, another part of the ritual; Dean's not allowed to make noise. No grunts, no hissing, and absolutely no talking except for if he needs to use his safeword. 

After a few minutes, Dean feels his legs start to quiver, and Sam's grip on him becomes more forceful. Not to hold him in place or keep him down, but to help ground him. Sam keeps him perfectly still, body pressed up to Dean's in every possible place, being there, being present, catching him. He whispers something into Dean's ear, but Dean can't make out the words, too lost in this, too busy _feeling_ and still trying not to. He's starting to fall, lose himself and surrender, but it's ingrained in him to not let that happen. To hold on, fight tooth and nail to keep in control. He teeters on the edge, right there, but can't make himself let go. 

More time ticks by, seconds, minutes, eternities, and Dean's beginning to fear that it's not going to work tonight. That he's too lost, and that all this isn't enough to bring him back, make that dangerous thing in the pit of his stomach uncurl and retreat, and he almost wants to sob with disappointment when the pain stops. He's numb, and when they reposition him, sit him up straighter against Sam's chest and push his legs up further, he doesn't protest. He hardly even cares. 

After they have Dean settled the way they want him, Sam draws him back in again. His breath is hot against Dean's neck when he presses his forehead to the side of Dean's face. “Shh. Trust me. We'll get you there. We'll take care of you. We'll make this work, for you.” 

The noise of a bottle of lube being opened clues Dean in to what's going to happen next, and he doesn't startle when Cas spreads a generous amount of it on his cock, his balls, further down. His fingers linger on the skin of Dean's hip for a moment, caressing it with his thumb, before he takes hold of Dean's cock and begins to jack him with long, slow strokes. Dean's rock-hard, something that didn't even register to him until now, and he has to bite his lip not to moan. The contrasting sensation serves to highlight the throbbing of his stomach as well, somehow enhances it and brings it back to the forefront of his mind. They complement each other, make him more aware of pain _and_ pleasure, and Dean begins to sway his hips in rhythm with Cas' movements. 

His breath hitches when a clothespin snaps closed on one of his nipples, another on the second, suddenly and out of nowhere. Sam places a quick kiss to his temple, to help him ride out the time it takes for the pain to dull to an ache, shushes him. For a little while, there's nothing else than that; Sam's presence and Cas' hand on his cock and the distant, biting pain of the pins, and finally, fucking finally, Dean feels himself start to fall. 

And then Sam reaches forward, rakes his blunt fingernails all down the tender skin on Dean's stomach, and it makes Dean arch up in order to avoid crying out. This is _it_. His brain can't sort the conflicting signals it gets anymore, pain and friction mashing together and morphing into something new, something delicious and unique, and Dean's drunk on it. He wants it to stop and he can't take it and he needs it to go on forever. He feels his orgasm build, but Cas cuts it off with quick pressure to the base of Dean's cock. 

“Not yet,” he says. 

It leaves Dean hollow, empty in a way he has no words for, so much that his eyes water with unshed tears of sheer frustration. He writhes on the bed, as much as Sam's grip allows him to, tries to wrench one hand free so he can finish this himself. 

That earns him a quick slap to the wrist, from Cas, but the worse punishment by far is another break in which _nothing_ happens. No more than a minute maybe, but Dean feels every second of it as if it's endless. He's dead-afraid that he went too far, that he ruined this and that they'll stop, give him over to the dark thoughts swirling around in his head for a few more days at least, and he wants to scream. 

The relief that sweeps through him like a tide when Sam flicks at one of the clothespins and he feels the pressure of Cas' finger against his hole, breaching him, is endless and all-compassing. They're not done. There's more coming, they'll take him higher yet before they'll allow him to crash down. 

Dean almost keens in anticipation. _Almost._

A content little noise comes from Cas, somewhere in front of him, and Dean imagines him nodding. It's really okay; he didn't disappoint them. He can be good, be quiet, behave. Play by the rules they set, that they've given him. Cas takes the stroking back up before he pushes the first finger inside Dean, slowly, carefully. There's a delicate balance, here, that all three of them are aware of, and this, the fingering, jacking or fucking – on the rare occasions that happens – isn't supposed to hurt more than it has to; there's the slight burn of it, the uncomfortableness of the tight muscle being stretched, but the good pain, that's happening somewhere else. Dean needs both; the headrush of feeling pleasure at the same time as hurt is what makes his head spin, turns this into something more than sex. They urge each other on, oil poured into the fire; a cleansing fire, one that burns him inside out and leaves him pure. 

Periodically, in a rhythm that's somehow perfectly in tune with the movements of Cas fingers – one, then two, then three – inside of Dean's body and against his prostate, Sam keeps flicking at the clothespins. It sends a jolt through Dean each time, makes him writhe and shudder, little undulated movements of his whole body that are beyond his control. He floats on it all; the faint ache in his nipples, made into straight-on pain every time Sam plays with them, the more immediate, constant throb in his belly, and the bliss that spreads out from Cas' touch. He loses track of time, unable to comprehend anything else than this, the feeling and the lack of it and what they're doing to him, with him, _for him_. 

Sam squeezes the pins closer together, suddenly, both at once, and then releases them. The sharp flare of pain when blood and feeling flood back into the abused nubs is bright, white-hot, and absolutely intoxicating. Dean comes with it, uncontrolled and unbidden and like a fucking freight train, upper body snapping forward a little; the sensation of his own come on the hot, burning skin of his stomach only makes him fly higher, makes him see stars and fall back onto Sam's chest in a boneless heap when he's done. 

Sam talks him through the aftershocks, a tremor taking hold of Dean's body now that his orgasm has abated. He reacts on instinct when Sam turns his head, guides it upward enough so he can kiss him. There's no fight left in him, no resistance, nothing but exhaustion and clarity. He's tired, so tired all of a sudden, but he doesn't want to drift off yet. The kiss goes on, deepens, and Dean's actually aware of Sam's hard-on digging into his back; they won't do anything about that, though. Not tonight. 

Dean's body is still humming with it all, the fading echoes of pain and coming and the calm that's taken hold of him now that it's over, he's done it, _they're done_ , when Sam breaks the kiss and raises his head. Dean can feel him nodding, and then Cas is there, perching next to them, takes the blindfold off. 

As if by some secret cue, Dean immediately closes his legs and turns away, hides his face in Sam's shoulder. Sam's quiet now, doesn't say a word as he holds Dean close while Cas gets up once more, returns moments later with a warm washcloth and carefully touches it to Dean's stomach. Dean shifts, allows him to spread his legs again; just enough to clean him off and wipe away lube and come, apply salve to his stomach. 

He feels content, warm, and the last things he sees before his eyes fall closed is Cas' face as he lies down, facing Dean, and draws the comforter up over all three of them.


End file.
